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Updated: May 10, 2025
Brian, beaming with happiness, and on the point of opening his heart to Dierdre's almost worshipping love: Mother Beckett slowly getting back a measure of frail, flower-like health, in this lovely place which she calls Jim's: Father Beckett more at ease about her, and intensely interested in his scheme: the small, neat Belgian refugette likely to prove at least a ministering mouse if not a ministering angel: above all, hope if not certainty that Jim will one day return not only in spirit but in body to his château and his family.
Now, maybe I am beginning to earn a little of the affection which she and Father Beckett give me. I was all "keyed up" when I began to write to you to-night, Padre; but I was supposed to spend my three hours "off" in sleep. One hour is gone. Even if I can't sleep, I shall pass the other two trying to rest, in my narrow bed, which is close to Dierdre's. This is the next day.
It was only when he'd consented to Dierdre's visit at the château on the other side of the Somme, and promised to drop in now and then himself on his way somewhere else, that he allowed himself a second thought. To attract attention to it, he started, ran his hand through his hair, and stopped in the middle of a sentence. "I am heaven's own fool!" he exclaimed.
I understand just why you spoke, and it's going to help me a lot like a strong tonic. You must have known it would. And if Monsieur and Madame have forgiven us " "Us? What have you done? If they've forgiven me " "They have, indeed, forgiven," said the blind Frenchman. "They even thank you. If possible you've drawn them closer together than before." Brian searched for Dierdre's hand, and found it.
I half expected him to pretend ingenuousness, and spring the tale of Dierdre's adventure with Herter on the company. But he preserved a discreet reticence, more for his own sake than mine or his sister's, of course. He's as lazy as he is impish, except when there's some special object to gain, and probably he wished to avoid the bother of explanations.
Dierdre's a Sinn Feiner. You needn't expect mercy from her, unless I keep her down with a strong hand the Hidden Hand. She hates you Northerners about ten times worse than she hates the Huns. Now you look as if you thought her name wasn't Dierdre! It is, because she took it. She takes a lot of things, when I've showed her how. For instance, photographs.
People used to call his talent a "blend of vision with reality." Now, all that is left him is "vision" vision of the spirit. But with help I used to think it would be my help: now I realize it will be Dierdre's who knows what extraordinary things my blind Brian may accomplish? His hope is so beautiful, and so strong, that it has lit an answering flame of hope in me.
"I never thought of all these things when I could see pictures with my eyes and paint them with my hands," he said. And perhaps he gave a sigh for the past, which touched Dierdre's heart as the wind, in his fancy, touched the trees. "Couldn't you use your old knowledge, and learn to paint without seeing?" she asked.
She knew how to act, but she couldn't, Heaven knows why. She's got temperament enough, but she couldn't let herself out. You see what she's like! She failed in America, where she'd followed me against our mother's will. Mother died while we were there. Another blow! And a man Dierdre's been half engaged to was killed in Belgium. She didn't love him, but he was made of money.
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